Penumbra
by Ovo
Summary: Life can be a struggle. So can Death. Sometimes ignorance may be the only salvation of the mind.
1. Twilit Dreams

**Penumbra**  
_Twilit Dreams_

It was non-existence. No senses permeated awareness, or there was nothing to sense. No sight sound… no touch taste smell… no balance… and no cognition.

One shaky breath.

Pain exploded from within. His body ached for that breath. Feeling had returned, in the form of bruised pressure along his side, cold against his arms and face, and throbbing in his fingers.

He opened his eyes – pain. He blinked them shut, and open again. His sight adjusted to the myriad of blurred, bright grays, which gradually changed to color and distinction. Still, through no fault of his eyes, gray dominated.

Copper. He smelled metal; tasted copper and a metallic tinge in the air. The dead still air.

In his field of vision, something moved. A black blur… and it moved against the completely fixed background in time to the pain in his hand. His eyes focused; black feathers and clawed feet stained crimson danced before him. The bird's head came into view, staring at him with deep, pitiless eyes. It opened its stained beak in a silent cry of anger.

Pain.

Sound.

The raven cawed again, and the world exploded in a thunderous storm of noise.

It was far too much to take in all at once. And at once, he realized what dyed the bird's ocher skin red.

Neil panicked, and shoved himself up to sit; his shoulder hit something loose that clattered over behind him. Nevertheless, he ignored it, clutching his bloody hand to his chest and pushing away from the similarly retreating avis. He swallowed hard as it glared at him from afar, and dared not look away. He inched backward, and his unscathed hand came into contact with something not uniform with the metal ground – something softer, and barely less warm.

He turned timidly, and his eyes widened in dread as the first hints of recognition returned. Jumbled words bubbled over dry, cracked lips, so distorted that he didn't know what he had tried to say.

He tried again, faltering as the name conjured fierce memories.

"Jane?"

He reached for the fallen woman, twisting so as to kneel beside her. Her skin was warm to his apprehensive touch; and he almost cringed, imagining swift and unpleasant retaliation to the delicate poking. He smiled apologetically, ready to cough up a fast excuse in case he needed to… though he didn't think he did, because she had to understand.

"Hey… Jane? I…"

The man faltered again as perception broke through the illusion of life. Jane's skin was warmed by the morning sun, like the rest of the world was. The thick dust that covered them both couldn't hide her abnormally pallid hue that marked death.

Shock gave in to reasoning. He grasped her wrist as tightly as he dared, and waited.

His heartbeat… his pulse, and no other.

He stretched his arm to reach her throat, and held his breath as though it would make a difference.

Nothing.

"No…" he shook his head slowly in refusal, "C'mon, please," he wanted to scream it, but the words barely made it as whispers past his dry throat, "You can't do this; you're not playin' _fair_." It became realization – his blood ran cold, and his eyes stung.

A hint of movement caught his attention. He grimaced at the bird as it hopped towards them, intent on an easy meal.

"Get away from her!" he shouted, hoarse but boisterous enough to scare the bird away again. It continued to stare from its new perch, but he tried not to let it bother him as much as it did.

Instead, he tended to Jane; he lifted her gently… cradled her to him, and shivered. There was no need for this; the sun-heated metal around them was very warm. Maybe it had burned him, or maybe he was just sick. He certainly _felt_ sick. He tried to remember where he was, or what had happened… anything more than the fleeting memories that teased him from the edge of recollection. He glanced at the red sun that peeked through the dust and smoke and metal frames of the world, and at that world around him.

Abandoned.

Dead.

_Like you should be_.

His recollection grew clearer, and he choked. He was scared of the hazy sky, and of the invisible threat that loomed just out of sight. He couldn't tell if he were alive, or if he wanted to be. He was afraid of not, but then he remembered the woman he held and the cruel brutality of reality… if this was it…. And between the two he couldn't decide.

The best wish he could think of was that this was a dream, and that he could wake and forget. His waking mind knew better, and rationality wasn't on his side.

Nearby, someone yelled words, and his despair fractured; a centimeter crack, but it was an improvement. He leveled his wits, and slowly, painfully, and with the support of the railing, gained his footing. It might have been an easier feat had he left the woman behind. Instead he carried her as though she were a doll… a very lifelike, but inanimate mannequin, precious in sentimentality only.

The platform they were on surprised him; it had been so steady as to fool him into believing he was on solid ground. Instead, the enclosed space confounded him before he realized that two steps down through a hole in the railings would bring him to concrete.

He strolled across the empty airfield, hindered slightly by Jane's weight, but more from the clumsy position in which he held her. Against common sense, he held her nearly parallel to himself. One arm was around her shoulders and the other pinned her legs against his hip. After a few paces, he stopped and fixed this by adjusting that arm under her knees, and mumbled an abundance of apologies for whatever he could imagine to be sorry for.

The hulk of debris emerged through the thick cloud of smoke. Parts of the vehicle seemed sunken in the ground – an optical illusion of smoke and the bare and broken metal frame. Neil found what he was looking for.

The dark skinned man fused to the wreckage was motionless, and the tech's skin crawled, and he glanced around at sudden misgivings.

"What took you so long?"

Neil startled, and turned to the speaker. The man's eyes had opened, and darkly screamed the silent pain that the body must have held. He was breathing, alive indeed, but the breath came so slowly it was barely noticeable.

"I don't… I…"

Ryan held up a shaking hand, and smiled, and grimaced in pain one long sigh later, "You just come around?"

"Yeah," that certainly sounded right, but, "What happened?"

The sergeant shook his head, and raised his arm to point to a part of the scenery, "You see that? To the left a little, the _old_ old building? I've been here since the sun was there, third set of windows down there, trying to figure that out." He squinted at the marker, and back to his friend, "How long was that, anyway?"

"I… don't know." He probably could have calculated it exactly, but didn't feel the need. Besides, a rough estimate came naturally after a few moments, "A couple hours, maybe."

Ryan considered, unintentionally staring the younger man down without noticing. He blinked once, and made his decision.

"Do you think you could get me out of here?"

What could the answer be but, "Yes"? While he wasn't sure he wanted to… how much better would it be to leave the man there? Where could he find help for this, and how long would it be? And just how much more comfortable would it be?

Neil argued with himself, but it was useless. He set Jane down in the bed of the truck, and climbed in between her and the executive officer, readying for his gruesome work. He froze, realizing the better course of action.

"Wait just a second…" he climbed over the debris, searching for the medi-kit, and more importantly the hydrogel that evaded him as he checked everywhere for it.

"Take your time," Ryan mumbled, his lips melting into a thin like as he took in Jane's condition. He refused to turn as Neil leapt from the wreckage and landed solidly on the ground.

"I'll be back, so… uh… I'll be back!" the tech ran off, leaving him alone again. So he closed his eyes and rested.

Neil wasn't so calm about the situation. The nearest medical supplies could well have been a thousand miles away. He wandered the gray airfield, winding back to the out-of-place platform he'd woken up on. The raven was there, perched on the railing as if it had never left. It scowled at him, cawing and ruffling its feathers. Neil glared right back, and approached to scare it out of spite. He tripped over something, kicking it up against the short steps. A rifle on the ground; _his _rifle, stolen from a locker earlier… the weapon that he'd dropped… He didn't want to think about that, but the weapon could prove useful, so much as it hadn't been before.

He picked it up, and aimed slowly at the bird. He wasn't intending to kill it, of course, only scare it. One shot, aimed barely to its left, brushed by it. Much to Neil's dismay, the bird only squinted at him and cawed again. It stretched its wings, and dropped from the bar, and came aloft again to fly over the man's head.

He ducked. The bird didn't flinch. It remained level with the man as it glided towards a familiar, purposefully mobile building. It was the most likely to contain medical supplies, within walking distance – and it just had to have something. Neil ran to it, ignoring the raven. He crept inside, past the malicious scanning equipment and windows.

The rooms were still… worse than outside, where at least there was a little wind. The sterile conditions struck nervousness, and the man was constantly looking over his shoulder. Something else was there, and he shuddered in fear of an invisible assailant.

No, it's just your imagination…

A sound. Light footfalls, he thought, but maybe not, and it vanished too quickly.

_There is **nothing **here. "Calm down."_ His voice broke the silence, and he winced at the stupidity of it.

And he still felt it… whatever it was.

Once he found what he was looking for, a full and unused medi-kit, one that he found crammed into a paper-filled shelf, he left as silently as possible, and swiftly scrambled when his boot screeched against the shiny metal floor.

He checked his pace after he caught himself running back to Ryan, and stopped looking over his shoulder every few steps. The anxious feeling lessened a little when he found his way back, only to be replaced by a different one.

"Serge…" he leaned over the bar, and waited for a response, which came in the from of a grunt, before continuing realizing that he didn't know what to say, "You ready?"

"I've only been waiting here… God knows how long."

Neil smiled nervously. He placed his burdens off to one side, and leapt over the edge of the bed. He braced himself; settling into what he hoped would be the best angle for speed, he gripped the pin holding Ryan in place, and wrestled with it. The trapped man added his strength to it, and the removal took a lot less effort that it might have. The metal creaked ominously as they bent it away, and Neil held it in place as Ryan wormed his way out of its path. Once he was free, the tech loosened his grip, and the metal snapped back down, dragging Neil with it. He recovered, wiping his hands on his pants and leaving a dark mark above the knees.

Both the effort and ripping free the metal from his midsection were painful, and Ryan bit his lip hard enough to tear it open. The wound in his abdomen was fully opened to the air, and he resisted clenching his arms there.

"See, not so bad," he hissed around a mouthful of blood.

Neil paled; it wasn't as though he had never seen the like before. A high percentage of military deaths were still caused by stupid, often bloody accidents that had nothing to do with war or battle. These accidents got to everyone, even the most experienced that were good enough so as never to die on the field.

So he guessed, sadly and sneaking a glimpse at Jane, that there were exceptions to _that_ rule.

"C'mon," he helped the living, carrying the medi-pack, gun and supporting as much as he could of Ryan's bulk… and was thankful that the sergeant still seemed competent enough on his own.

The big trick was getting over the ruined vehicle. Once they cleared it, they cooperatively staggered a long ways to the nearest wall – a part of the overlooking tower. Neil put all the six months of medical training he could remember to full use. Once the hydrogel was applied, it bound Ryan's wound together, solidifying into a kind of flexible imitation skin. Over that, they worked to apply bandages. It did little good as it was, and wouldn't last forever; they could only hope some kind of help would arrive in time to fix it permanently. Afterwards, Neil ran off again, leaving Ryan against the wall to rest. The tech came back with Jane, and the sergeant didn't argue with his determination not to leave her behind.

Suddenly inspired, Neil wandered off at a slower pace, finding his way into the tower. Again, he felt the odd sensation he'd always attributed to Phantoms. Now it only existed when he was alone… and it must have been a delusion. If there _were_ Phantoms here, he'd have died already… unless they developed a different strategy than "Kill all," and were waiting for something…

…Which they were known to do, on odd occasions.

Trying hard, and rather unsuccessfully, to be relaxed, he went about his search quickly. Thrice he had to stop to invisible noises, twice started back down, once jumped to a reflection in a window that he imagined, and all the time he regretted leaving his rifle with Ryan. He collected what he needed with haste, shoving each new thing he discovered and could think of a use for into his pockets. Once both pockets and hands were full, he retreated back down to the airfield as quickly as possible. He determined that he could return if necessary, but was not particular to the idea.

Once back, Neil sat a little farther away from the wall Ryan leaned against. He formulaically laid out what he'd found – mostly wire and circuitry – as well as the comm. device from his ear. He lacked the tools he needed. It didn't precisely mean he couldn't do what he wanted, it just meant that it would be a bit more difficult, probably lengthier project.

The day went slowly. Talk was scarce, and when it came about it ran in a grim direction before fading into the background. Neil played with the things he had managed to acquire, attempting at a makeshift transceiver; he worked languidly, for his mind wasn't on the project. Ryan didn't bother him; he was too tired to care and only wanted to rest his eyes.

"_Serge_!"

"What?" he shot awake, sitting up straight against the wall and instantly regretting it. Pain flourished, and he winced in Neil's direction. The tech only glared, and Ryan grinned sheepishly, "I wasn't sleeping, if that's what you think."

"Yeah, whatever," Neil replied at length, and returned to his tinkering, "…Liar."

"Hey!" Ryan feigned anger, "You can't talk to me like that, _Corporal Fleming…_"

"Sir," the tech acknowledged. He smirked, and kept his head down in the hope it wouldn't be entirely visible, but his superior wasn't finished.

"I… Uh, if you know the square root of … a… hundred… eighty-two, I'll let you off this time."

"It's," Neil stumbled. He dropped the wires he was messing with and looked up, staring blankly into the space between air particles, "Not a whole number; that's for sure." Ryan scrutinized him sternly, and he fidgeted, "What?"

"Okay, okay… Um, thirteen-point-something. I'll say thirteen-point-five," he pouted at nothing and leaned back, before smiling again, "Am I right?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" Ryan chuckled softly, leaning fully against the wall and staring at the dimming sky through the haze. The natural sunset coupled with the dust and smoke struck up beautiful colors in the heavens, with the superimposed sun at the center of the display.

"What do you suppose happened to him?" This time he kept his head down, examining the grit under his fingernails.

"Who?" Ryan closed his eyes again, making it a point not to fall to sleep this time.

"Captain Edwards." Hearing his best friend's name sent a dreadful chill through him, and he opened his eyes again.

"I'm not sure I want to think about that right now."

Understanding, Neil returned to his work. As the sun finally fell below the city plate, leaving the world in a dimmed cloudy glow, a sharp buzz broke through the silence, to be slowly replaced by a low whine. The sound disappeared when the tech removed a connection. He replaced it to another, and attached the wires to his headset.

He held the modified thing to his ear, and praised himself. He listened to the solid frequencies that filtered in, picked one at random, and sent out his distress call.

"Hello?"

Maybe not the most effective, but it got someone somewhere's attention.

"Who is this?"

"M One-Zero-Two Alpha," Neil repressed a grin, "Why, who is this?"

Silence for a minute, and a new voice came into his ear through the speaker.

"What is an _MF_ unit doing on this channel?"

"I'm not sure, who is this?"

The disgruntled man answered, and Neil tore the comm. away from his face. Ryan watched in nervous amusement as the tech snorted while trying desperately to stifle a fit of laughter.

"What happened?" he hissed.

Neil curled his hand tighter around the transmitter. "I got Independent News!" he whispered back before bringing the device back to continue the attempt. He bit his lip when he realized the newsman was still talking, but couldn't suppress the smile.

Ryan rolled his eyes shut and rubbed them with his hand. It was no secret that the Independent and Military news networks were highly hostile to each other. Of course, this carried over to the rest of the military, even if they had nothing to do with it.

"Look, I don't mean to be rude, that's all very informative," Neil sighed, still smirking a little, cutting the man off after a string of obscenities, "But we need help here. My exec is injured; we're in an exposed area…"

"Neil, calm down – he can't see your hand."

Apparently having listened, Neil stopped the accompanying gesticulation, and brought his wrist to his forehead.

"Okay, listen – the environment could get very deadly fast. Please… we need _help_." After those thoughts, he glanced about the dusk for any sign of activity, and was only half pleased that he didn't see anything.

The silence didn't help his apprehension.

Maybe it wasn't as bad as he thought – he could always try another frequency – but it was better to get the assistance they required as fast as possible, rather than try a hundred times. He reached to jiggle the wire and try another, but the reply stopped him.

"Where are you?"

The tech breathed a sigh of relief.

"We're in New York – one of the airfields. But I… uh… I can't see the designation from here, it's too dark."

"We'll see what we can do," the response was flat, but not dishonest. Or so Neil hoped. His hand hovered over the chord still, but it paid to be polite.

"Thank you," he pulled the wire free, and toyed with it a few seconds.

"Good?"

"I think so."

The sun was gone. The gibbous moon cast a thin light over the area, giving some places an eerie phosphorescent glow. Other places seemed to glow on their own; this seemed especially prevalent in pools on the ground that had been invisible during the day's light.

"Hey, Serge? If you want to sleep for a while – just don't die on me – but I wouldn't mind if you did. Sleep, that is."

"No," Ryan replied, "Why? You tired?"

"A little," Neil said honestly.

"Then you sleep."

Neil shook his head, and stood up, leaving the pile of junk where it was. He seated himself down beside Ryan, on the far side of where the rifle was, and smiled in the darkness.

"Gonna be a long night," he remarked, drawing his knees to his chest.

The prediction was true. They sat in silence as the hours drifted by. Nothing bothered them. Neil shivered in the cold from time to time, but Ryan seemed oblivious to it. Wisps of cloud above and the thinning smoke below blew around in a hushed dance. Despite the situation, both nodded off briefly from time to time, but neither said anything – and thus said nothing about that.

Dawn arrived, and with it came wakefulness. Ryan woke first, and took a minute to evaluate the situation. No good, they had both slept and for far too long. He thanked whatever holy power existed that nothing bad had happened during the time.

The cloudy sky kept away the sun. The phosphorescence had yet to go away entirely, but now it moved about in the form of mist and settled as morning condensation.

Neil remained asleep, his entire body drawn as far into his T-shirt as he could get. Ryan snorted at the sight, but his attention was soon drawn elsewhere.

He moved slowly, ignoring old stiffness, soreness, and bleeding. He inched his way, not daring to stand, crouch, or kneel. It wasn't far; he rested by Jane, examining not the lifelessness but the life he remembered.

"What were you trying to prove, huh?" the sergeant sighed. He tried to wipe some of the grime off her face, but his fingers weren't clean enough. The damp dirt simply spread around, leaving distinct trails.

Neil woke, lifting his head from his shirt and blinking wearily. He poked his arms from his sleeves, and tried halfheartedly to fix the now-stretched garment. He scowled at Ryan, until the sergeant noticed, when he glared at the empty pavement off a ways.

"What's wrong?"

As if he didn't understand…

"Nothing," Neil shrugged loosely, "I just…"

As though he didn't know….

"What's is it?"

"I don't feel so great." It was true, his throat was sore, his body ached… but that wasn't what bothered him. And Ryan knew it.

The executive officer sighed, "You gonna…?"

The conversation was cut short at the sound of footsteps… and voices soon after. Ryan reached for the gun, and Neil inched closer, despite being waved off. A group of strangers – soldiers – appeared through the mist, and one waved in their direction. Neither moved as the company approached.

They walked confidently and erratically; defensive but not bothered. They stopped a few feet away, and the front individual walked up without wavering. Whoever it was was unarmed and flaunted it.

"You're injured? Can you walk?" she asked, gesturing to the soldiers behind her to advance. They did, but stayed well behind her.

"I don't think I want to," Ryan admitted, although he felt a little better, "But if I have to…"

"No, we'll figure something out, don't worry."

_Don't worry_. As though there was something to worry about. They were safe, relatively, at last. And as the group solved their problems, the watchers in the shadows scurried back to safety as the sun rose higher in the sky, and the raven ascended to meet it.


	2. Civilized Thought

**Penumbra**  
_Civilized Thought_

The only reason he had dared put down the gun was so the slimmest chance of hope that the doubt growing in his mind was baseless. The unusual pattern of the strangers' approach did little to ease his misgivings. The main group was too tightly drawn; and the perimeter guard – the luck-dependant ones who served as Phantom bait, scouts, and relief if the main group was attacked – were far closer than they should have been. It was as though they weren't so cautious about what was beyond the fringes, but what was snared within.

The woman – most probably the commander of this rather large group, had removed her helmet and was studying him closely, as he was she. Body language belied what must have been forced compassion in her dark eyes.

Ryan kept his thoughts focused as the medic was waved forth. The other four of the main group arranged themselves concentrically between the three of the perimeter guard; the medic examined him mindfully, as the commander stood by. But it was _her_ that worried him. What if he was wrong in his trust? He was desperate to warn Neil of his misgivings, to allow the tech the choice of running, possibly to save his life. The sergeant didn't mind whether he would be allowed the chance to heal, as he needed, or if they would relieve him of life once again and altogether. He didn't feel he had the choice, but for one, possibly the last of his oldest friends, even the notion of living in exile must have been preferable to falling to what may have no more hope than certain death. But Neil, who only sat and watched anxiously from one side, was oblivious; they didn't share a common worry.

Regardless, the technician's eyes brought forth the old memory of another friend, younger, and long gone to the accidents of war; and he repressed the urge to look at the now forsaken body of his once protégé, always friend – to the one sacrifice made to make another in vain. He couldn't let this younger, now older friend fall into danger, as he had once before to one older, now younger forever.

His thoughts were interrupted as a pinprick sensation introduced an anesthetic to his arm. The medic responded to his started, immediately enraged reaction expertly by emptying the conveyance device and holding up the empty glass cartridge, and raising his other, now empty hand as a gesture of peace.

"It's a simple pain-killer," he explained hastily, the non-metallic human expression of placidity more calming than the words, "It's not dangerous, but it _is_ powerful; we could probably walk you out of here and you wouldn't feel a thing."

"Really," Ryan doubted he meant it that way, but he pushed himself off the ground, biting back the pain and ignoring the numbing feeling that began to spread through his body at a quickening pace. He swayed, reaching for the wall of the tower, farther away; one the closest soldier dropped his rifle to stand by his side and, along with the medic on his other, supported him as he stood.

But the medic was not to be dissuaded from his obligation so easily.

"No," he insisted, "We need to be careful…"

Ryan glanced at the commander, as he'd been doing periodically, and thought he saw something more in the brunette's chilled stare. Admiration, or was he mistaken as it was fleeting and gone?

"Let him walk," she said, indifference allowing the words to ease into the world, "If that's really what he wants."

"But-"

"What about the others?"

"You have him?" the medic sighed, looking past Ryan's shoulders to the individual beyond. The soldier shook his head, signaling a brief wait as he carefully removed his helmet and handed it to the one who had already collected his weapon.

"Sorry," the youngster apologized, "I've got him," to be acknowledged with a grunt as the medic followed his duty.

Neil bristled; his fingers twitched unnoticed in his lap, as this stranger approached Jane. The medic's quick assertion, regardless of accuracy or cold sympathy, was nothing less than painful as he drew a blood sample, capped the vial, and stored it for further record.

"Not this one."

Ryan closed his eyes; the full acceptance of death was quick, but never easy. He never wished it for anyone. A silent prayer crossed his mind, for yet another one he loved dearly but would never speak to again.

"What about you?"

Neil didn't answer, instead content to stare ahead, delving into the less painful past. It was a place where the city was alive…

"Are you injured?"

…And he knew for certain that the people he cared for were alive… and that he could be counted among the living.

"Can you hear me?"

The medic was getting frustrated. He crouched nearby, pressed his hand to the technician's cheek, forcing the soldier to look at him; and he flinched, nearly shuddered, at the ghostly oblivion reflected in those slate-blue eyes. Still, he did only as he was trained, and dared not question the underlying emotive factors; here, only the body mattered.

"Can you hear me?"

A fleeting blink followed by a slight nod.

"Are you injured?"

Neil's lips moved, but he was silent as he considered the question, and he shook his head.

"No, I…" he tilted away from the hand to look up at the man. Confused, but not to let on yet, he answered truthfully, "I just hurt… all over."

"Can you stand?" In answer to the question, he did. So did the medic. They watched one another, Neil, for the first, time taking in the stranger's appearance: a typical field medic, flustered and possibly younger than he looked due to what could have been chronic stress, as well as a bad case of thinning brown hair. His white field uniform was graying from the soot and dust that had settled over the city. The man didn't notice Neil's scrutiny, and only did what was expected of him, "Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere," Neil smiled. It was a joke; indeed he hurt everywhere, inside and out, body and soul. The smile faded as the medic examined him concisely, carefully probing the few cuts and bruises that signified the exterior damage; and the tech quickly realized that he was quite glad to be alive and to be able feel.

"You're fine," the man grunted, as though the very effort was a waste and warranted irritation. He sulked back to his commander's side, blatantly ignored by everyone but Neil. Medics could be snippy, like everyone else could. They could also have bad days. The tech mulled over which it was and why; not that he would ever truly know either.

"Is that it?" the question was lacking, the commander disappointed. She scanned her squadron, and the strangers, and the surrounding area and sighed reflexively to the loose atmosphere, "Everyone ready to go home?"

The resounding, numerous boisterous, answers to the question earned a smile, and the woman gestured, a wave, towards the way they had come. They began, leaving slightly slower than their arrival due to Ryan's condition. The commander lingered, although for once she wasn't the only one.

"What are you doing?" she asked, skeptical as Neil slowly, reverently lifted the remaining form from the ground. She slowly caught on, but rejected the notion because it was just too… unorthodox. She stepped in front of him when he started to follow the company, and he was surprised, "Hey, what is this?"

"This…" Neil echoed, perplexed. He understood, and suddenly worried. He shifted Jane in his arms, determined that she couldn't be left behind. Or he couldn't leave her… not until he was sure beyond any doubt, "I'm taking her with us."

"Why?" the stranger glanced at the body, impassive to the statement, "She's dead. Get rid of her and get moving."

"No, you don't…" he faltered; she didn't comprehend and he couldn't explain it to her, because neither did he, "I can't. You can't make me."

It was a clumsy assertion, but it interpreted what he felt. There were very few things he felt secure in believing, and of them this was now his primary concern. If he let himself think from the opposite side, for a moment or long enough to linger, it would have broken him. He was having a difficult enough time believing any of this was real.

"Like Hell I can't," her voice was dangerously low. The company ahead had stopped, unsure as to the delay, and swirls of mist partially obscured them from view. The woman tried to ignore them, "Drop the waif and _walk_."

The man shook his head… simple refusal, simple unspoken language pleading to the contrary. The movement stopped, and the commander was caught in the sincere expression, in the fear and pain. It stirred something else in the officer, a deeper instinct that set her on edge and, as she fought it, brought forth a separate reaction – aggression.

"You can _not_ bring her," she stepped forward, and he easily stepped back and away, his burden held protectively close. It wasn't that it was against standard judgement and training to risk oneself for the dead anymore, it was a deeper feeling within her that brought about carefully concealed terror. It wasn't the mission… it was _him_; entwined as they were, somehow they had been unraveled. She suddenly saw him as an individual, and something more…

"Then, you'll just have t' leave me here," Neil hadn't considered the poignancy of the alternative. It scared him, suddenly as he had said it, because it had become true. Except that the woman seemed no more willing to accept it.

"_Why_?"

"Because I'd have to."

"This means that much to you?" quiet, to his level acceptance of the fact that she didn't have to know, "I don't see the point."

"I do."

"You're a Hundred-Two A?" a simple nod, and through clenched teeth, the woman ceded the argument, "Fine. Bring her if you're so Goddamned adamant about it."

She turned to follow her fellows, and two small words stopped her fast.

"Thank you."

A pity-laced glance was harbored under a sigh of contempt. She watched him balance the weight, his and of the body, before he hurried to follow.

"What do I care?"

**---**

It was a drawn out flight, during which Neil kept perfectly still – consciously keeping himself from moving any voluntary muscle. It wasn't working as well as he hoped, and every once and a while he'd catch himself tapping his foot against the steel grating below, or twining his fingers together and apart repetitively; or he would find that it was wholly imperative to itch someplace.

Adding to his discomfort, the _Copperhead_ class transport felt sad. He could feel the current, the pulse of the ship, and the hum was not the content of a happy craft. It was tired, strained, either overworked or old…under poor maintenance. It was probably a combination. He sympathized with the ship, but it only served to increase his own affliction.

Trying to dispel the feeling of dread creeping back and forth through his mind, he examined the strangers. There were twelve people in all, and all packed into the passenger compartment of the _Copperhead_. With the exception of the medic, the nine of the strangers' group had little choice but to remain armored and armed; still, a total of seven helmets had been cracked; two of those had been removed completely. The strangers kept their distance as best they could, crushing towards the egress to avoid Neil's group. From their behavior, Neil imagined that there were one or two hushed conversations going on, especially since he heard some muffled and distorted mumbling. Much to his annoyance, he couldn't discern anything of it beyond that.

Instead of dwelling on things, he smiled at the commander. Her troops gave her room as well, possibly because she boldly sat directly across from him. Her helmet rested to one side, though it seemed she couldn't be bothered carrying a weapon at all. Her sharp eyes narrowed inexplicably as she studied him and his side; when she didn't smile back, the corporal's own faded as he turned his studied the rest of the group. Of them, only the captain and another, the helmeted soldier, paid them full attention.

Neil couldn't help feeling he'd forgotten something. He glanced at Ryan, who, though drooped seemed to be resting peacefully. He didn't dare look to Jane, but that had to be it. He settled in, ignoring the feeling as well as he could. Soon, everything would be better. Back to normal… It _had_ to be.

As the announcement came in that they would be landing momentarily, he braced himself for it. A reassuringly familiar sensation, he felt the aircraft slowly drop beneath him. It was similar in feel to the drop of an elevator, which was the reason he loved them so much… besides the buttons.

Soon it was over. The weary transport came to rest, and mere minutes passed as the group readied to file out. Neil, Ryan, and the kindly soldier who stayed to support the wounded sergeant lingered behind. The first gave precedence to the slow progress of the next. Meanwhile, he tended to the fallen before letting alone, determined to find one who might know better.

As soon as the ramp was lowered, Neil bristled. Something wasn't just amiss, it was _wrong_. Ahead of him by some length, Ryan stopped stiffly at the top of the platform, forcing the young officer supporting him to do the same. Creeping up behind them, Neil caught a glimpse between their shoulders of what made his friend freeze so suddenly, before being forcefully shoved backwards into the compartment by the sergeant. He stumbled off his feet; his shoulder struck painfully against the bench before he landed on his side.

"Run," Ryan commanded – rather, he actually _snapped_ back at him. Understanding the imperative command perfectly, Neil scrambled up and through the compartment, using the handrails to the best of his advantage to pull himself up over various types of equipment and other bits in his progress. Unlike one or two on the rare occasion, an entire detachment of military police weren't to be taken lightly. Under the circumstances, and armed and outfitted as they were, it was highly unlikely they were there on Honor Guard duty to welcome a couple of wayward soldiers home.

Once he reached the far end of the cabin, the tech played with the controls to fix the hatch sloped above to open, and, after impatiently squeezing through before it had fully done so, slammed this side's console to close it again. He didn't notice whether it worked or not, as he'd already slid down into the adjoined cockpit.

"Excuse me," he mumbled, clambering over the frightfully surprised pilot and manipulating the emergency released for the front window. He pushed the smallest of the transparent panel out, slipped through the narrow, not fully opened gap, and slid down the abrupt metal surface. After a momentary illusion of weightlessness, he landed heavily, but having managed not to break in the three-himself long fall to asphalt, recovered fast and ran.

One particular soldier, unfortunate in that he was clever, hadn't followed his fellows in securing the transport. He gave chase when he saw the man drop from the front of the _Copperhead_. Hard pressed to catch up, let alone keep up, the MP coerced every part of him to move _faster_. He saw one chance, and dove for the escapee's legs, bringing them both to the cement ground.

Not to be taken lightly, Neil rolled onto his back when he hit the ground, bringing his foot hard against his assailant's head, which snapped to one side; the grip on him loosened. He thanked regulation that the military police force was outfitted against humans; the padded, steel gray uniforms weren't as difficult to get around as full armor might have been. The tech finished the roll, pulling free in the process, and pushed himself back up to continue in his flight unhindered. Within minutes, he was off the airfield and had found his way to the military base proper.

From there, it became a hazardous chance. He slowed, trying to seem like nothing attention-worthy. In the back of his mind, he sought a safe place… somewhere to hide. Just plain out of sight was always good, so he took as many turns as he could, climbing to the higher levels of the city whenever the opportunity arose and running when no one was looking.

Some way up, he paused for a breath on one corner, leaning heavily against the wall and wanting to simply collapse there to escape the path of his mind.

**_They_** _said it'd be okay._

Betrayed.

_How many days? Two…?_ Two, he could remember…. Two… if he was unlucky. The captain… he wasn't here to protect them, but he had to be somewhere…. What was going to happen before, he didn't know; nor did he know what would happen now. He didn't know where he was, or where he was going, or what was going to happen if he were caught again, or why he didn't _think_ of the fact that he'd only recently escaped from holding and processing…. He _should_ have thought of that, but Ryan…

_Ryan!_

"Oh man…" he moaned – he simply didn't know what to do….

A shout broke him from his contemplation. He squinted at the grating below his feet. _Yeah_, _think of a new one, guys_… he was _really_ going to stop now…

Dashing round the corner, he found himself thrown off his feet, and the woman he'd run into stumbled back. Reaching for balance but finding none, she soon joined him on the ground with a solid, painful _thud_, as a flurry of loose papers fell about them. The other recovered before he did, swore loudly, and lunged. She had him by the front of the shirt before he could conceive of getting away. His hands around her wrist were a reflex, and did nothing to free him as he merely blinked in shock.

"Watch it y…" she demanded harshly, suddenly remorseful at his terrified and ragged appearance. More than that, her jaw slacked at this all too familiar man, "you?"

_But so…_

Incredulous, she let go, helping him to stand, as shakily as he was, "Neil?" _It is you, isn't it?_ "Where'd…" confused by his appearance, she tried to determine, "What's wrong?"

His mouth moved, but he couldn't answer at first… only shook his head at the words that weren't working for him anymore. He looked up at the honey-blonde mulatto helplessly, taking in her familiar presence as something comforting, but it wasn't enough. And her question…

"I don't know…" he finally whimpered through short, choked sobs. But, no, that wasn't true. Or was it? He knew, or thought he knew, but he couldn't tell her that. He was too confused; and forced into wondering if he truly did wrong.

"Jesus Christ," The woman swore again – Neil was visibly trembling, scared out of his wits by something she wasn't seeing. Whatever it was had to be bad, even by Neil-standards, "What happened to you?"

They were interrupted, and it became clear.

The three military police that managed to keep a somewhat visible distance found their way around the far corner, in part aided by the sharp yell. The woman glanced from Neil to the strangers, who were creeping forward like he might vanish into the air. For that, she had to bite back a laugh – but only because it would have been inappropriate. _So true…._

"Sierra…" Neil choked; and she couldn't decide if it were a warning or a plea. Scowling, she stepped in front of him while he held onto her shirt. She forced away the thought of the grimy fingerprints he must have left on the hems of her fresh uniform, and glared at her friend's pursuers. She drew herself up to full height, only taller than Neil by a couple of inches at most, and did what distinguished her among her peers.

She spat vows to make sailors blush, followed by heedless demands.

"What the hell is going on?" she snarled, and the nearest of the three took a quick step back, cringing with the others. Sierra took a step forward, but Neil stayed where he was.

"Ma'am," the man to her left smiled nervously… falsely, Neil realized. Thankfully, Sierra didn't care, "This… Um…" he faltered, as she turned her fully enraged attention to him, "This individual… is… is under…"

"'This individual is under arrest…" the man nodded, but she wasn't finished, "_For?'_"

"Well-" the conversation was cut short, as one of the other MPs had circumnavigated the woman in an effort to get at his target. They grappled, Neil managing to topple his opponent, but similarly falling in the process.

Sierra almost pitied the man – Neil may not have been the most intimidating person on the planet, but he could put up one hell of a fight when pressed. Even now, under a heavier individual trained in policing the militia, the tech managed to hold his own without giving an inch. She decided to help them both, near simultaneous in pulling the stranger away from Neil and more gently hauling the latter to his feet again.

"Please don't interfere…." It was more of a prayer – one not to be fulfilled.

"Or _what?_" she demanded angrily, paying little attention as Neil inched back and forth around her, trying to use her as a shield against the third MP. She stepped back, into the way of the aggressor, then swatting at him when he moved to around in front of her. The stranger jumped back, and Neil leaned around Sierra to meet the other's lighter eyes.

"It's beyond our control, ma'am," the articulate one answered weakly.

_Is it really_? she wondered, approaching him, "I think you're lying. Tell me what's going on; and tell me _now_!"

Seeing his chance, the harassing one leapt at Neil, who tried to flee; but the last joined the attempt, and the technician skidded to a stop. He hesitated a moment, turning as though to give in. As soon as the enforcers were pacified, he tried again, coming too close to one of the men in an attempt to avoid the other as he rushed to get by. This one caught him by the arm, it was enough to hinder his progress… rather, halt it all together; as he twisted to free himself, the second seized him from behind. Not ready to relent, Neil used the man as a balancing factor, and kicked at the man in front of him… who simply backed up. Neil relented again, hanging his head tiredly. As the man approached again, he kicked out again; the impact sent the other back several feet, and made the one holding him stumble. But the grip under his arms tightened, and the other man's wrists crossed dangerously tight over his chest.

Meanwhile, Sierra gave up on the officer she was trying to reason with – it was hopeless. She was going to help Neil, one way or the other, and she wasn't going to ignore his predicament any longer in favor of a 'peaceable' solution. Apparently, the officer knew what she was thinking, as she turned her head to the fray.

"I'm sorry," her attention snapped back to him, and he shivered under that glower. He felt feeble, inefficient in dealing with the situation, "But," he stuttered, "If you're going to interfere, we're…. We'll have to arrest you, too."

She froze. Despite her attitude, and whom she chose to associate with or a number of her hobbies, she had an impeccable record of arrests. This was because, usually, she could get out of things by intimidation, but this one wasn't backing down. She considered carefully, if she _did_ beat the hell out of him, chances were that she'd break her beautiful record of zero. _Pride or Neil?_

She glanced at him; was that _really_ a fair question?

**_Neil_**.

"Please don't…" Sierra turned back to the _click_, and it took a second to recognize the universally familiar cast of a handgun. She frowned… there _was_ another, lesser way. Although she felt slighted, preferring the direct rather than bureaucratic solution. She felt guilty for even considering it, then for not risking all and playing hero.

By now, the other two had Neil securely, though he still struggled. But more than that, he reached for her, crying her name… crying for help. Over the struggle, over the commotion, a single _Please_ floated clearly to her ears.

_Please_ he'd cried, and she watched coldly as he was dragged off. Around her feet, forgotten papers lay trampled – some fluttered, having slipped and fallen down below and yet to land so far below.

**---**

Peaceful sleep. The softness around him was like nothing he had ever known in his life. _In life_. His eyes opened slowly, not by his influence, and for a split second it seemed unnatural. The world seemed to fluctuate, and then it was plush again.

The white bedclothes were a shock. So was the opulent hardwood bed, really, he'd never seen the like of it. He tried to remember how he'd gotten there, but what came back wasn't what he expected. It left him wondering… had he died or had he failed?

Gray eased himself up, out of wariness rather than weariness. In fact, he felt as though he could carry a marathon twice over and wouldn't lose an ounce of energy. Instead of testing the intensity, he put it to use by scrutinizing the unfamiliar room. Not merely strange, it was completely alien. If he'd ever seen the like, it would have been in old and second hand, most likely from an image or video cell.

It was an antique bedroom. The furniture was stylized, likened to match the height of the Victorian era precisely instead of simply imitating it; an obvious mimicry to one who might know better. Although there was an abundance of natural light, not one window marked the walls or ceiling, or anywhere in sight.

Obliviously, Gray studied the opulence in a confused awe. There was something wrong, or many things, but he was having trouble placing them. An empty bookcase stared back at him across the room, so he blinked once to ensure this place wasn't something else his eyes might be seeing wrong.

He slipped out of bed, disregarding the impulse to stay belly-close to the striated wood floor. One thing stood out of place, a thing that suddenly caught his attention. A uniform… draped across a mahogany chair. While he might not have known anything about the rest of the chamber, it didn't belong to the uniform. He didn't belong to the uniform either, but it was closer to his era, only some four or five decades out of date, and something he recognized. Not intimately, but his grandfather had one like it – if he remembered those small years correctly.

As he reached for it, he realized his own state of dress, which happened to be nonexistent. With a difficult conscious effort, he pushed from his mind anything that evoked and examined the garments. Finding them crisply kept, he clothed himself… but only out of this new necessity. He found them satisfactory; and _only_ satisfactory, as he wouldn't allow himself the term _comfortable_ when he was most likely wearing someone else's clothes.

He made it to the heavy oaken door, something he hadn't overlooked but hadn't yet investigated. The brass handle twisted easily, and the door opened smoothly into the room. Surprising, as he hadn't touched either. Nevertheless, he stepped into the hallway, confidently and readied to waylay any passerby for information – had there been any. Instead, he gawked at the chill marble passage as the door closed behind him.

It didn't make much sense, but perhaps the inner room was only paneled. He would have to ask someone, once he found a person to ask. He glanced from left to right; both ways seemed equally endless and bare. He walked right, trailing his fingers on the white stone as he went. An invisible light source prevailed, much like in the room; but here there might have been windows out of sight, possibly in the archways so high above.

He wandered, finding little except a few empty chambers, each randomly different than the last. It may as well have been a museum of culture; somewhere he'd never heard of but existed to preserve some sense of self within the distinct civilizations… even older ones, such as the Greeks or Romans, as well as one's he didn't recognize at all.

One door he came to was ajar, and he stopped short. The rest like this, like his, had been closed, and for a brief moment, he believed he saw movement on the far, tapestry covered wall. Creeping closer, he peered to see as much as he could without disturbing the room… and froze completely when he caught sight of the individual lying in the cloth-lined pit – near completely motionless, but visibly alive – breathing. Incredulous, he moved for a closer look, leaning close to gap.

Suddenly, the door slammed shut. Displaced air rushed around him, rippling his hair. He blinked, surprised, and tried desperately to open it, for this he had to know. Despite his efforts, it held; more so, it felt as though someone was holding it shut.

"Like Hell you do," he growled at it. This he _had_ to know. He hurled himself into it, and the door crashed freely inward under the force.

The woman sprang alert from a deep sleep, rolling to a ready crouch at the edge of the sleeping pit, and glared. The fact that she knew the man didn't lessen the anger, and his open-mouthed gawking wasn't helping the situation. Or the sudden realization that she was bare.

Jane scowled darkly, reaching behind her to pull a covering from the tangled mess and wrapped the white thing around her.

Gray glanced around the stylized Egyptian room, finding no one else, and back to Jane. With a squeaked apology, he reached for the door. His hand slipped from the handle once before he managed to pull it shut behind him.

The woman considered the event sourly, as disoriented as she ever remembered being. She stood up, wrapping the sheet around herself fully, and glanced around for something more suitable. It turned into an exhaustive search, and all she managed to turn up was a red kimono splashed with green vines and blue flowers. She stared at it in contempt, but, for lack of nothing else, dropped the blanket.

It seemed to take forever. The components were nightmarish. Once she got the underlayers figured out, she found the actual dress was a little larger than it should have been. She tied it together with the black sash, which seemed to help, except she knew it wasn't close to a traditional acceptable – let alone perfect. And she wondered why she would want Gray to know she cared. Besides, he was already waiting… _isn't he?_

She shook her head, sulking at nothing. Lingering wasn't going to help her mystification. She slid the half-rate bow across her midsection until it was behind her arm enough not to be a hindrance. Something else… she lifted up the three sticks she'd found with the dress, about a hand's breadth long. Consciously, she ran her fingers through loose her hair. It was too short for that. She dropped them to the floor, picked up the sandals, and stood behind the door.

For a moment, she held her breath. A sheet was better than this! She stifled the repulsion, and, after a single reflexive sigh, she stepped outside.

Gray snapped his head up, and stared in disbelief; had he found her in the world of the living or had he joined her in that of death? And were the others here somewhere, possibly already together and waiting for them? His thoughts continued to run in circles, until she appraised his antiquated appearance and snatched him from edge of the contemplative abyss.

"Air Force?"

It was with a bit more skepticism than she had actually intended, and Gray didn't bother to suppress his smile.

"Flower print?" he countered, his voice cracking ever slightly. She glared, studying him thoughtfully for a few seconds before finding the temerity for a suitable ultimatum.

"Well, I don't _have_ to wear this, you know?" she threatened, dropping the sandals and tugging undone the black strip of ribbon that held the dress in place. Gray caught the fabric around her shoulders as she shrugged it off, and tried clumsily to replace it before taking a quick step back.

"No, that's okay," he insisted holding up his hands in defeat; his boy-scout nature responded to the plight by sending a flush of color to his face, "it's very nice, it's just not…" as he figured, _you_, had potential to make the situation worse, he mumbled, "It's nice, really."

Jane shook her head, barely giving him another look as she straightened her garment, tightening it back the way it had been. She considered asking Gray to help her tie the obi belt in the proper fashion, but thought better of it. Instead she knotted it at her side, not even bothering to bow it again.

"Where are we?" she asked, glancing about at the thoroughly unfamiliar walls and architecture.

"I was… kind of hoping that you could tell me," after all, she was the first person he'd seen in this place. She only shrugged, and gave it her best guess.

"Hell?" He felt chilled, and met her eyes as she stared at him.

"What makes you say that?"

"A number of reasons," she shrugged. In an uncharacteristic gesture, she let her gaze drop to the floor before mumbling, " But you're here; so I guess that theory wouldn't hold out, would it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing," she crossed her arms, but didn't move any more than that.

"Jane, what did you mean by that?"

"Forget about it."

"No… _Jane…_"

Her head snapped up, and his voice failed as she glared at him.

"It's just that you're…" the words were loud, sudden… spiteful. And she froze, shocked at the burst.

"I'm what?" Gray asked quietly.

"Perfect," Jane smiled grimly, "Determined; heroic; noble; moral… Male." Abruptly, she turned away, arms dropping to her sides as she walked away from him, paying no attention to he or the wall. Gray could only blink in miscomprehension. What on Earth had she meant by _that_?

"I'm sure," she called over her shoulder, "Any hell ever conceived of would turn you away in disgust."

Gray fought back a sigh, before jogging after her and lolling to match her pace. She glanced at his feet before staring ahead; still at an angle of the floor. He smiled softly, tapping her shoulder and waiting for her to look at him.

"You too; they'd be too afraid you'd take over."

His shy smile broke into a small grin when her snicker broke the restraint, and he looked up at the vaulted ceiling.

"So it's not Hell," he concluded intrepidly, "Then let's find out where we are." Jane stopped, and so did he, "What?" She was staring at him again, and he worried about it; the facial cast he couldn't quite place. She only shrugged and fell in place behind him.


	3. Unwelcome Circumstance

**Penumbra**  
_Unwelcome Circumstance_

The stale air left a metallic taste in the mouth. Occasionally, the thought of cracking the window came to mind, and was soon forgotten, leaving a sense of déjà vu with every instance it came up. In the time she had lived in the apartment, not one of the windows had been opened; she was used to the taste.

As it was, the blinds were barely touched. Usually they remained shut, filtering out the glow from the omnipresent Barrier. Sierra preferred the blatantly fabricated indoor lighting to the oozing illusion of half-light. That some people accepted the saffron as a full replacement to the sun was a vile truth; if it weren't for the atmospheric depletion, she would have opted for life without the enclosure. What would it matter if the Phantoms killed off a few stragglers here and there that weren't strong enough to defend themselves?

Heavily slouched into her chair, and barely aware, the woman toyed with the near-empty glass set on the side of the holo terminal. The terminal itself was dormant, closed, although that wouldn't have been enough to protect it if the glass, or the accompanying decanter, had spilled. Sierra didn't have to guess to imagine the fact; she had experience in the matter, as well as a number of warnings from numerous repair technicians. It wasn't something she worried about.

She sighed, covering the glass with her hand. Out of sight, she could still feel it – cool, curved… slightly gritty, betraying an ancestry of sand. Stylized to be that way, translucent white rather than clear. She had almost convinced herself out of it.

Lifting her palm away from it, she studied the blur of her fingers through the frosted cup. Not enthralled, she clasped it between her fingertips and twirled it slowly.

Photographs set to remind, on the wall behind the desk, set under and meticulously in line with an otherwise ignored small aesthetic ridge of plaster that circled the room, were left momentarily forgotten. For some it might have been better for, as a number seemed to have marks of abuse – bends, tears, wrinkles – as well as more friendly imprints that signaled a simple neglect of care.

The farthest on the left, like all the rest, reflected people. Not a person, since any less than two per image would have wasted precious film. The two here, a younger adult and older adolescent, appeared deft in similarity but quite clearly polar in spectacle. The man, rosy yet evidently blushing, overshadowed the younger, ashen and altogether lighter youth. In the caught moment, both had been surprised.

The picture sagged slowly, peeling off the wall of its own accord as the plastic adhesive sticking it failed. It fell suddenly, flatly, and surprised the preoccupied woman.

Similarly revolting, the glass slipped from her fingers and across the slick surface. It teetered on the edge, before plummeting to shatter on the bare alloy floor.

"Son of a bitch," Sierra swore. It took a few moments for enough motivation to cross her mind that she straightened herself up and leaned enough to see the damage. Annoyed, she picked up the photograph, shaking the shattered glass off it. Upon realization of which it had been, she swore again and let it fall again.

"All right," she conceded, boisterously, glaring upward as though Heaven would open and answer past not only the distance of sky, but also the amassed levels of the apartment complex between, "I'm on my way; happy now?"

She scowled as glass crunched under her shoe; she would have to clean up that mess before any others.

**---**

The harsh ambiance of the hospital had a familiar welcome to it. It reminded of the small sanctuary she had established in the past months, but this was different.

The quite remembrance of solitude afforded in the private labs was shattered in this present ensample of the daytime bustle, aides and specialists moving about their earnest tasks as the young doctor followed one in particular with tenacious perseverance. Her quarry stopped short, and she did cease her hurry.

"Again, I apologize, but I will not have ruffians in my ward if they have no business here."

"On the contrary, they may think their business is to protect you from me," The woman smiled to match the superficial levity spun into her voice. To live should not have been a burden as it was swiftly becoming.

Oblivious to the woman's inner torment, the practitioner shook his head, roan eyes on the display within his hand,

"I don't believe that to be necessary," with complete honesty did he admit, "I'm actually a believer in your work," Aki deliberated over the man's wording. Being believed in was heartening, but the word itself stung. "And, beside that, there hasn't been one instance where the soldiery come in here and don't break something."

"Yes… they can be skilled at that."

"I remember one time we had an officer in here… his whole regiment was in here celebrating, and we could get nothing done."

"Doctor, may I?"

With his consent, Aki collected the record from his hands. Inner turmoil raged as the words read from the electronic paper fused with thought, and throughout her outward calm endured the tempest.

"If you trust me enough, I'd like to speak to him alone," her voice surprisingly even, she looked up to the one who knew her work.

"He may still be sedated…"

"Thank you," in one little sigh, the scientist let a hint to her weariness show through, "I can wait."

The physician took his leave, and Aki was alone in the bustling hall.

**---**

The complexity never betrayed the enigmatic reason behind it all.

It had to be as vast as a metropolis, this Ghost City of mixed culture with no on-hand interpretation, no pattern or purpose.

Aside from the small rooms, there were larger chambers. The design changed from room to room. Here was a stylized French rococo ballroom – wall-long mirrors, artwork on the walls that weren't, and bathed in eighteenth century pastels. Another, a more conservative Chinese parlor – calligraphy-styled banners of story and artwork he couldn't understand, floor mats, tables mimicked from the Forbidden City. A sandstone cave – deep and seemingly carved by human hands – followed by an archway leading off to a marbleized hall from which several more examples were available.

It was one of two things that were furthering his decent into insanity. In hours worth of wandering, there was nothing to be found… not _one_ clue… to the reasoning behind it all.

It was infuriating.

The second thing bothering him, Gray knew, was standing in front of him. In front of him, because last time she disappeared without warning while he assumed she was following him. He found her quickly, after he realized; she was studying, or at least staring at, some of the local artwork. He knew she wouldn't answer if he asked _why_. She hadn't strayed behind on accident.

She was intentionally trying to get to him. Traditionally, it was a habit that tended to come and go with the seasons. This time, however, it was working far better than he cared to admit. He didn't understand why on either front, only that she knew and should have known better.

Maybe it was the place getting to him. Maybe it was the growing suspicion that this woman was not the woman he cared for.

Just maybe, this was not Jane; _his_ Jane was the woman who died against his will. _Died_, as his mind consistently shocked him every few steps.

There was something missing, and not the least of it was how this woman was alive where his friend should not have been.

She wasn't working with him; she may as well have been against him. There could have been something she wasn't telling him, perhaps about this place and how he came to be here.

"Left or right?"

His question should not have sparked a five-minute debate consisting mostly of double questions.

"How should I know?"

"I thought you might have an opinion."

"I don't," the woman Gray was hesitant to name studied the left way for a few moments, then the right for a couple of seconds less, "What about the middle?"

"What?" There was no middle – just a separating wall at a thin angle, "What do you mean? There _isn't_ a middle."

"Exactly," Jane scoffed the unseen architects, "There _should be_ a middle."

Gray bit his tongue on the chance she _wanted_ him to ask _why_. Chances were, she already had a reason to use against him.

"Well which of the two that actually _exist_ would you choose?"

"I wouldn't."

"Why not?"

She shrugged; it was an age-old gesture of a thousand expressions.

_No reason_, Gray interpreted, _I just want to waste your time._

"That's your job, isn't it?"

He ignored the comment, although hesitated before his first choice.

"Oh no!" the drawl was enough to hate, "Any but _that_ one."

The captain shook his head, and instead took to the left, following it a few meters before he realized his mistake. He quickly retraced his steps to follow Jane down the right.

Gray exhaled. It was a long-winded sigh, carrying all his anger in one breath. He could only convince himself this had a root-source. He needed something he could understand.

**---**

Aki poised delicately upon the lightweight chair, a plastic thing that forwent comfort and sole purpose seemed to be for tradition and the easy migrations from one room to another. She barely dared to breathe, in case it might somehow shatter the fragile dream and wake in a heartless reality.

The man stood out in her vision, enshrined upon an altar of white and sheltered by such similar material. Small, strategically placed sensors marred his skin in crucial places to monitor for thus far nonexistent complications.

Her fingers entwined, and she fell deep into an observance of the past days.

Many of her expeditions into the wasteland had been harrowing, but until the last few – specifically, until Gray intervened – they had not been so complex. In the rush of the hours, barely days, one mislaid step could have resulted in a far-reaching cataclysm.

Luck, it seemed, was on the side of the planet; but the price of salvation had been dear to _her_ heart.

Gray could not have lived through their invasion of the Phantom's Crater. He was already dying by the time her spirit wave was completed, she was almost sure – proof as to why it was so drawn to him. Nevertheless, the memory replayed, and over and over she found herself wishing there were something more she could have done… something more she could have said. _Anything_.

She was swept out of her reverie as her surroundings reached a peak inharmonious to how she had left them. In particular, her eyes were drawn to the hospital bed as a change in breathing indicated a corresponding return to the waking world.

The man groaned; a lament Aki could only empathize with.

"Hey."

Her voice was soft, carrying her heartfelt compassion. Or so she hoped; in response, the figure froze, dark eyes seeking the sound. To her relief, the man smiled lightly, causing her to do the same.

"Hey," the response came alike, though slightly bewildered. Aki quickly pushed the lingering remainders of her brooding thoughts to a far corner of her mind and smiled the same faux that had sustained her the past hours and days.

"You okay?"

"I'm not…" somewhere, he had forgotten what he would have said. The sentiment changed, "I thought I was dead."

"Yeah," Aki agreed, solemn, "So did I."

"No, I mean," Ryan managed, albeit uncomfortable in the light of the conversation, "The painkillers – last time I got shot up with something like that, it nearly killed me. Allergy or something…."

This sparked Aki's professional interest. There were few enough allergic to anything; and most allergies were correctable through some form or another of bio-therapy…

"What was the name of it, do you remember?"

"I dunno, it could have been anything."

"I bet I know what it was. Pretty dangerous, too…" _Count yourself lucky_, she mused over her own revelation, "We don't use it anymore."

"I guess that's good to know, but all the-" the subject died suddenly before a wholly different question sprang the sergeant's weary mind, "What brings you here?"

In all her reflection, Aki had yet to find a conclusive answer to that. Yet, she had many small fragments of many answers – _responsibility; liberation; association; authority; solutions; curiosity; guilt; compassion_ – not one felt right to speak. She watched variations of each pass before her mind's eye, each and every one discarded with the same aversion…. She did not want to be here for a reason other than _I felt like it_, but found it came down to a amalgamation of every last reason she could think of… and none at all.

"I think I," and therein she found her problem. She _thought_. With the problem so suddenly revealed, so close, she knew the solution. Something fought so long, no winning or losing, she found it easier to lose her pride, not in the sterile labs or before her confidant and mentor, but in the presence of a near-stranger.

This in mind, the young doctor reached out to the sergeant, her hand coming to rest over his. No trepidation; rejection was nothing – she could walk out with no second thought. Instead, she admitted, honestly, humbly as she kept the linoleum between them in sight,

"I could use a friend right now."

Although taken aback, Ryan recovered with ease. Granted, the situation had an awkward feel to it… but it failed to persuade the man from a deep, heartfelt smile. He squeezed Aki's hand gently, and quietly reminded her that she was not alone in the world,

"You and me both, huh?"

**---**

The detention cellblock wasn't very large, for it wasn't regularly used for long periods of time. True, there was an occasional offender, but serious crimes were processed quickly. Most criminals were moved straight to a permanent prison facility. These temporary holdings were used as briefly as possible, most commonly for drunken soldiers or people that were awaiting a stricter sentencing or an appeal. This ominous evening, the place was empty… cells dark, in a line and waiting for use. One exception, a single cell where the lights above were on and thick bands of red light separated the sulking young man from the world outside his small niche.

Neil glowered at his boot. He was almost to the point where he needed a new pair, or would suffer the dangers of free toes. Although that he was currently worrying away at the point of the greatest wear probably furthered the process.

While he may very well have found something better with which to amuse himself, perhaps in the vast reaches of a pocket, he was decidedly sure in his decision to attract as little attention as possible. The vast dark into which the cell's small aura of light spilled into was far too intimidating. While not looking had its problems – wherein he had no way of knowing what lay beyond and his imagination was more than happy to provide – it was better to leave be than face the darkness that shifted with a tide unto itself.

Uncounted hours had passed like this.

At length, something tangible came. Lumbering past the empty cells, not bothering in its stealth, the thing paused before him. A crack of static signaled the disappearance of the only thing baring it from he, and, not quite willing to acknowledge the presence, Neil remained locked where he was.

Who knew? Perhaps it would just go away if he held no belief in it. Through the childish paranoia, he realized it spoke,

"Coming out or do I have to leave you here?"

Neil hesitantly lifted his head to the voice. It was a heavily controlled movement, reflecting the hours' worth of isolation and contemplation that had rekindled a fear of the abstract.

The survivalist part of him thought to form words, while the experience left him with dry, clipped, and downright accusatory tone.

"What took you so long?"

**---**

_Kimono_.

She hated them, what they symbolized. But she couldn't bring herself to tear it apart in an effort to make it something more endurable; an ingrained traditionalism, although it wasn't hers, she had to respect. It brought to surface old thoughts, old skepticism… and old love.

She never understood why… rather, how the woman had lived with it. The kimono, the art, the ceremony… it all seemed counterproductive, or even retrogressive to being female.

The woman had merely chided the complaints, citing the reason as tradition.

Never a harsh word, never openly angry… even after the fact, a letter of resignation passing hands under a cool, serene gaze.

_Tradition be damned._

It was fifteen years later and the only thing Jane managed to drudge from the experience was loathing. Following the man she hated for his perfection in some archaeologist's drool-laden fantasy. Despising herself for her own malevolence.

She could disguise it… she could bury it, hide it beyond a multi-facet façade… but it had festered and it was enervating.

Gray paused, calling for her to halt. She counted the seconds.

_Three,_

_Two,_

_One…_

"Tell me something," it began, his voice resonating to a thing deep within; she empathized… she really did, "What is all this."

"What is all what?"

"_This_. All of _this_."

He had probably gestured to clarify. Not that he needed to… she knew perfectly well what he meant. She had no answer, and she let him know that in equally vague terms.

She shrugged.

In one of those marble hallways, Gray lost his temper. In the same moment, Jane might have laughed.

If it weren't for the façade.

If it weren't for his hand on her shoulder, whirling her about in all the rage and hate, pinning her to the wall and demanding the answers she had.

Only she hadn't. But for a shining star of a moment, she knew she was not alone in the universe.

She smiled. A wry smirk that may have cracked into grin. She wasn't sure, because his hand was at her throat.

Bare hand. Bare throat. All new, exciting gambles and possibilities shattered by a startling revelation.

In all of a moment, there was no boundary. Gray let go, his feet bringing him backward to catch an otherwise impending fall. Jane stood, ashen, eyes unfocused.

In all the years, one never understood the other. Those under wedlock never shared such secrets. In all likelihood, none wanted to. Neither one bound lifetime, nor one easy acquaintance could have shared as much as one intricate touch.

_In one instant…_

"Leave me alone," not a request, not a demand, but somewhere in between. Gray obliged, because he understood it to be best.

And Jane Proudfoot knew that she was alone in the universe.


	4. High Road, Low Road

**Penumbra  
**_High Road; Low Road_

The memories flooded his mind came unbidden… undesired.

He climbed through his bedroom window, a temporary escape from the tyranny – he wandered the streets, not to return to the place that was and was never home. Normally he might have made an appearance to his companions, confidants and cronies... Tonight, he wished to leave no trail… to escape for good. A place in mind, a romantic ideal, and he were to be gone in the dark.

The swirl of lucidity clouded the present. He had no wish to know these things, no matter how much clarity that they awarded him for listening. It was wrong, and he knew that.

There was torment and there was torture… and none of it compared. He had to admit, it was nice to be cared about for once, but to care was to be in pain – he could not afford that, for himself or for them… and again he left, a mere ghost of a memory. So he did not care, as he did not worry…

But why did it still hurt so much?

For a brief instant, he was himself again… and perhaps he understood. He was ill as he relieved years upon years filled with blood and grief. And to what end? There was no glory, no romantic ideal in the Phantom War… It was fought for survival, and the glorious prize… was death.

_No!_ he denied them; he tried desperately to drown them with _his_ dreams, _his_ emotion… thoughts of her flooded his mind, rightful in their claim. Her name was his salvation from the deluge, for it was the single thing he knew for sure to claim as his own. Even his reflection held no recognition to his self.

But she...

Aki…

And how had he staggered here, to this hall of mirrors? They surrounded him, permeated his mind, shown his form, and yet echoed nothing of his plight. The pained, desperate man staring back at him held none of the answers – the bare truth.

He stared into his eyes, a disappointment. He cast his gaze downward… failed… indistinct. What was he for, then, if not to bring pain to those he cared for?

His breath caught as he noticed the wraith.

It was behind him. He could feel it. He tried to see it, but it was nowhere – always behind him, out of sight by reflection or as he turned. Had it always been there, or had his imagination conjured it forth?

"Who are you?" his voice cracked. Had he used it?

_Bold question,_ came the reply, _Heart to heart? Sincere, boy; good boy…_

It slid over his shoulders – a shawl of the invisible twilight… crooning in the voice of the evening zephyr.

"What do you want?" he demanded, strong in control – in survival.

Want? I want only to serve… to help… Yes, I want only to **help** him that seeks me… Brother of the Earth that seeks me… you that seek me.

"What makes you think I need your help?"

_She walks a dangerous path, a path you cannot reach_. Laughter, soft and fleeting… stagnant pool ripples in the dark places beneath the Earth. _Tell me… what would you do to save her? For you know she will not act to save herself._

He frowned. It was not a fair question. The answer, he did not need to give. Before it even glimmered in his mind, the bargain was made.

_…Anything…_

The mirrors rippled, and he saw himself clearly for the first time.

**---**

Aki jerked awake to the sound of a half-dream. No memory, no way to tell if it were _her_ dream, she pushed up in her chair. Disoriented, she glanced demurely from side and side. This was not her laboratory-made-apartment. This was not the Boa. So… where was she?

Hospital whites and grays, and the hum of equipment. Yes, she _had_ fallen asleep here, after checking with the staff to ensure it was safe. Ryan…

Rubbing her eyes, Aki glanced his way. He had fallen to slumber… shortly before she must have nodded off, herself. No sedation necessary, just natural, healing sleep. Peaceful sleep. At peace.

The young doctor shivered, stifling the urge to rouse the sergeant to defend against her own train of thought. She looked for else to attract her attention, finding little to nothing in the chill, sterile room. Nothing warm, not a thing living save Aki, herself, and he… and he that needed the rest.

Her gaze was drawn to the window. She stood slowly, becoming reaccustomed to her cramped body as she made her way to stare at the city beyond. Well-contrasted to the world in which she stood, the skyscrapers loomed dingy and dark… and sharing a different facet of the same grays.

All reflected on the glass.

The window was useless. The eternal twilight of the Barrier masked day from night. There was no reason for it to be there save the aesthetic that mankind had associated it with, and for that glass was easier to produce than most materials, and easier to smelt and recast and reuse without difficulty. Which failed to explain the scratches on this one, _but_ _for the shrill grating on glass of a dream._

Aki blinked.

Perhaps she was seeing things… an eccentric reflection playing into her mind. Or it had subliminally influenced her dreams…?

The scars on the outside of the glass held her attention rapt. That which drew it further did so from the other side of the glass… a shadow taking flight from the corner of her eye. Aki leaned forward, straining to see beyond the edge.

Am I sleeping even now?

"Doctor Ross?"

Trembling, the young woman spun about. She smiled weakly. _Not asleep, not a dream…_ Merely a young, wide-eyed private looking for a job done and gone.

"I'm sorry but I couldn't find the other one… They…" Not lost on Aki was the fear the young woman wore bare. To her own fright, it hit an empathic nerve, and she sympathized, worrying for her lost near-friend… What had happened to him that caused such a terror?

"I'm sorry; they thought he was one of Michaux's," She choked the name as though it were a curse, "Doctor, that's who they gave him to."

Unnoticed, Ryan cracked an eye open. Stifling the disagreeable, _don't, _feeling that strikes before certain doom, he interceded politely, striking his status as officially asleep.

"Who are you looking for?"

Both women turned. Aki leapt to explain, apologetically,

"Your squad-brother… we… ah, seem to have lost him."

"Yeah, I gathered," the sergeant asserted, "But what did you say? Who got him?"

The girl hesitated. Only with Aki silently imploring her, did she speak up, "Staff Sergeant Michaux, sir."

"Hell," Ryan swore, coughing humorless snicker, "That's what I thought you said."

Decidedly not afraid of this person unknown, Aki smiled and shook her head, "Where can I find this… sergeant?"

"Doctor, I…" the private caught herself fast, strangled, "I didn't ask. I don't know; I'm sorry, doctor."

"It's okay," Aki assured her, turning to Ryan on her way out, "I'll see what I can find. Be back soon."

"Doctor Ross!" instead of letting her go in peace, the sergeant instead imparted a cryptic series of warnings, "Be careful; straight and to the point; don't let yourself get sidetracked, don't assume, and for God's sake, get out as soon as you can.

Anything can be an offence, and will be taken as an offence. Remember that."

Aki fought to grin at the somber warning. There was laughter in her voice as she replied,

"Don't worry, I can take care of myself," she paused before the door, "But I'll be extra careful, just for you."

And she was gone. The private lingered, unsure whether she was supposed to wait or report home. Just as she were about to excuse herself, Ryan spoke up.

"You gonna stick around 'til she gets back?" he asked leisurely, watching her movements, the way she turned meekly to stare, not at him, but a hundred yards past him with big, frightened doe-eyes. He could have laughed. He didn't.

"I'm sure it'll be one heck of a story, when she does," he continued, his bass flawless to every lazy word, "Go ahead; pull up a chair if you want."

She obeyed instantly – nearly falling over herself to fulfil the offer seen as demand. Ryan sighed, suppressing a chuckle, _Is that how they teach 'em now?_

"You remind me of someone," he said, "You know that?"

"Sir?" the girl glanced at him once before staring back at the floor tiles.

"A very special girl I knew once, a long time ago…" It was too new; too raw. The sergeant nearly trapped himself in a world that was of his own making. He altered the subject – he was near about talking to himself, anyway, "What's your name, kid?"

"Violet."

"Violet," Ryan repeated the name-word clearly, adding to it easily, "Violet Mercer?"

Her head snapped up, her eyes frightful again, "How did you…?"

The man held up his hand, cutting her off; he flicked a finger to point directly to the thick white band on her uniform,

"You're wearing your nametag."

"Oh."

This time, he did laugh, albeit quietly. He noticed, pleased, how she smiled shyly. Even if she couldn't look at him for more than four seconds at a time, it was an improvement.

"Well then, Mercer, want some advice from an old-timer?"

"Sir."

It could have been a _yes_, or it could have been a _no_. Ryan paused, gaining a sense of the situation.

"Don't leave them behind," he offered at length, "They wouldn't want you to – they'll be right there for you every time, just don't ever go away without them. You got that?"

He had surprised her again. Her mouth moved without sound… and the sergeant only watched, dispassionate… letting her to her own affairs and decisions of what to make of it. Eventually, she managed to squeak,

"Yes sir."

And so he smiled.

**---**

The safest way past the demons of Hell was to follow at the Devil's heels and pray no one paid heed.

This, although perhaps he had not thought of it as thus, was Neil's strategy. With every second step habitually shadowing Sierra's, he followed her at a marked time past light and darks that merged to a gloom in the corner of his eye. He did not look; he did not dare. He did not know if he was _supposed_ to be following, or if the sergeant even knew he was there.

But the doubt was far overcast by simple perception. At the last he had been aware, the two of them had not parted on adverse terms… or at least, more adverse than Sierra was on the general basis. The fact that she had stepped up to defend him only strengthened his confidence – if she did it once, chances were good that she would do it again. The idea that she, herself, was one that could easily find menacing situations was clear to his course of thought, but he also knew that she was intimidating to people that had not known her since she wore braces. And even if shove came to blows, she was perfectly capable of handling her own, and with his help, given help was necessary, then….

And, at the very worst, he could always run.

As Neil's logic dictated, this was the safest place in the world to be.

Survival appeased, the technician determined to explain unto his rescuer the whole story once she was somber… which meant, most likely, when she asked him, and was – with all due luck – willing to listen to his reason.

Content for the time being, he let his mind permeate to where he were presently allowed of the more pleasant atmospheres of consciousness… in this case, limited to the bright memories opposed to fantasy or reverie, murky but perceptible in the realm of hindsight….

And every blissful facsimile was to be equivalently shaded to mark the embittered future accompanying it. Not one retrospection of the sheaf did the man not see at least one… brothers and sisters, in blood or in battle, heartlessly sacrificed to the unquestionably elusive goal of _preservation_.

This furthered to the reoccurring apprehension over his own mortality, as well as the personal admonition that maybe that _hadn't_ been such a good idea…. But the damage was done, and he had little enough spirit to stop the lead of the cycle of thought.

Instead, with little better to do, he ran with it.

**---**

Awareness was fleeting… indistinct. Shadows flittered, tangible… alive. She could see them easily now. They watched from behind the light, moving and jostling one another for the best vantage. Sometimes they would run away, and at the very least shrunk back whence she approached. They were waiting… a warning or a welcome to the world… or perhaps silent bystanders to whatever they knew had invariably come to pass.

But Jane cared nothing for it. Frequently, she stepped off her indistinct path to deliberately scatter them, watch them flee, wraithlike, to their new hiding places.

"I hope you're having as much fun as I am," she laughed, dry… rasping. She was worn out… it hurt to exist, but so long as she could still harass the locals… well, she had something with which to entertain herself, at any rate.

Maybe it went both ways. They never actually went away, they just… moved.

She turned back to the center of the hall, trudging forth to the solid, perfectly timed scuffing sound of her bare heels scraping the stone beneath. Dragging her feet almost felt like a privilege, the sensation tearing at her feet apart and running cold into her calves. But, no, that seemed… wrong. For the first time in some hours, she actually focused on the ground before her.

Snow.

Behind, the pure, untainted white leading back to marble halls – she hadn't left a trace. Before, it piled up on floor and walls aside, parting for a giant oaken portal. All around her, the stuff trickled down from above, not interfering with the perpetual light that was _so_ aggravating her nerves.

Jane groaned. She _hated_ the cold. But… hell if she wasn't closer to the other side of the snowdrift by now.

It took a lot to ignore the chill. It climbed her legs, sinking deep into bone. Her blood froze and, yet circulation maintained…

Soon, she felt no different than the snow at her feet.

Numb, she stopped for her breath. In equilibrium as the air around her…

Suddenly, she jumped alert as she noticed the shadows had moved closer. Perhaps bolder, they seemed far more animate, rustling audibly in excitement… perchance whispering among themselves.

_Oh, what do you know?_ Forcing a derisive snort, Jane fell the last few steps to the end, landing heavy against the wooden plane… she imagined pulling the door open once she recovered enough to do so, if only it weren't so cold.

As it turned out, she didn't have to worry about it. The door, heavy as it were, swung easily inward under her comparatively slight weight. She fell with the movement, landing heavily beyond.

It burned… as extreme as the freeze, the thaw tore its way into her body and took root, seeking equipoise to the chill that she conducted. With the little energy she still possessed, she clawed her way toward the interior, despite how her hands caught fire. Only once the cold had receded, now all but replaced, did she stop….

She lay as she was, seared… incinerated to ash and scattered to the wind, perhaps… not that she knew. Hours might have passed, and it seemed to fade. No abandon, as she could have hoped, and no oblivion…

At long last, she groused, rolling up and taking heed of her newest surroundings.

Dusk. Dark, penetrating gloom. Unlike the rest of what she had seen, light only emanated from a few strategically placed and rather mundane candles. Dead shadow dominated, where the radiance cowered in stagnant little pools, flickering only in fear of the breeze.

The place may as well have been carved out of a single, giant tree… the struts and supports, the floorboards, all a part of the embellishment rather than form. Careful imperfections had been detailed, grandiloquently, so as to show they were there.

And the door, Jane noticed, had closed of its own accord.

Sighing, she turned back to the great hall. She had little desire to backtrack, but this was… unholy.

_But you're here_, she goaded, _now what?_

Inert, she fought to move.

Well?

No movement. No reply. She grew impatient.

Walk!

Falling forward, she stepped for her balance, padding softly into the vast open beneath vaulting archways. A mere shadow to the emptiness, she past the tables and chairs, carven of the same stuff as all else and merely portrayed different, that loomed grand in the darkness.

The first that caught her full attention was a simple object – a chalice, turned upon its side. There were, she noticed at length, several of them about, but only this one, askew, managed to make her realize it. She righted it, stopping short of marvel at the love that must have gone into the craftsmanship of the thing – wooden like all else here, but thin, eloquently shaped and solid to the touch.

She turned away from it, now entranced by a sudden glimmer deeper inward… and high above. Carefully she watched, waiting for it to repeat. It failed to do so, and, inquisitive, she followed the direction to a mantel rising from the floor, near over her height. Peering over the edge, there were many more furniture legs just visible in the dark.

Piqued, Jane made the effort. Ascent was easy enough – she slipped her hands over the edge and dragged herself upward, stepping twice up the edge. Continuing, she peered into the darkness, trying to find that which glittered so enticingly.

Another, shallower vault followed… and a third platform and standing high above the others. Carvings in the wood proved easy footholds, and Jane stood before a single table – unlike the multiple and arranged below. Yet even this was abandoned.

Twelve ornate chairs contrasted the multitude of plain and practical that existed below. Each, perhaps, was a theme – marked in no language the woman knew.

A last landing, high above the third as the third was the second and small. In comparison, it was the smallest – five full paces across an indeterminately polygonal shape… as Jane soon found, it overlooked the full hall. A majestic dais raised from the floor, a masterwork of metals and woods. Curved elegantly as two beast's heads that rose, vigilant to either side above the seat. Perched daintily upon a lovingly carved ear, a ruffle of black feathers curled in on itself, hiccuping in sleep and setting in motion a silver chain attached to a tawny talon… setting off a sparkle in the meager light. She reached for it – this that lived in the lifeless abyss; it roused, yet not to her action, as before she touched it, and it hissed, as to felinekind.

This was the heart – death still and lifeless. Feathers roosted, but silently, for the most part, and as though not of this place. In this dark and nothing, this vacuum, it would be the last thing Jane could have suspected.

"Women are not allowed in this hall."

Boisterous, the words may have carried to the edge of the hall, where no ears listened. It could have reached beyond. As it were, it caused Jane to jump and that were all she knew of it. Spinning to confront this one, she came abreast the chair and glared.

Perhaps he were handsome, this fair, well-groomed man. His leathers bore a distinctive authority, and he smiled kindly enough… but there was something in his eyes… a thing deceptive.

The raven – as it were no less pleased than Jane – hissed and cawed, fluttering once before settling to glare as she did… irritably and spiteful.

The man took no heed, all his attention on the woman before him. He followed her glance to the bird with much interest.

"Ah, I see you've met _Hugin_," he murmured darkly, "Clever little thing… a pity he's no more useful than a doorknob."

"But as I said," he repeated, drawing focus back to himself, "Women are not allowed here."

Likely that she should have spoken, but she had little incentive – this was the first person she met since she Gray had left her in the luminescent halls… and already she didn't like him. Familiar resentment smoldered, held in check by caution on unfamiliar territory.

If the man cared, it didn't show. Ostentatious, he continued on,

"I am willing to grant you an exception of course, although I must say… I am curious as to you are doing here."

Only when it became apparent that he could likely remain for some time did she give a curt reply.

"And who are you?"

"That… is," he answered slowly, seemingly taken aback, "An ill-mannered question."

"But come," the stranger's smiled returned._ Danger_, the sensation rippled, opposing the gesture. The man stepped forward, hand outreached in offer, "There are much more pleasant places than this… Come, you tell me–"

As he moved, a blob of darkness brushed past Jane's right side. Another to her left, though not as close, lunged synchronistical. She saw them clearly - a pair of wolves, chained to the throne – as they strained their bonds to the limit, snarling and barking at the stranger. The woman watched, neutral, in fascination of the display.

The man stumbled back, clearly rankled at the interruption. As if to add his personal brand of insult, Hugin _caw_ed once, ruffling in displeasure.

Recovered, the man scowled… cautiously measuring how to further proceed. Guarded for the moment, Jane merely smirked. The impasse lasted briefly, for another voice sounded – worn, wind waning through the skeleton of an ancient ash…

"Leave be, Deceiver… This one is not for you."

"Then who is she for?" the one demanded, turning. Jane saw the newcomer now, an old man – thin and wan, bent under robes that would appear to heavy to bear, yet he did, "What rules still govern us, now? Answer me this."

"This is… still my hall. If no where else… there will be order here… And be they our ways…"

The great breathes between words wheezed audibly. The old man leaned heavy on a walking staff, face hidden, downcast… impressive beard swaying from side to side beneath the brim of his hat as he walked. He set a hand to the head of the nearest wolf, almost a consoling effort, as he meandered past.

Settling into the raised chair and setting his staff aside, he sighed deeply; the wolves flocked to him, whining in commiseration.

"It would be wise… to remember that," the elder spoke, "And… if you do not agree… then you may… always leave."

It seemed a fractured second, and the younger man vanished with his scowl. Jane could only blink – he had been there, and now he was gone. Her understanding had a slight trouble comprehending it as she saw it.

"And you… child," the hat turned. Perhaps the head turned, and she could not see, "Who comes before me at this hour? I would… see… you…."

"Ah yes…" where the woman refused to move, it seemed to make no difference. She watched, cautiously, alert to the chain winding about her ankles as the wolf it were attached to sought solace, "Warrior… you… your kind would have be welcome here… in an Age… but we lost so much… so much…" he coughed, sending a fluff of beard trembling.

"But I sense you… you are not for mine… not yet, perchance… What is to be done, yes, what is to be done?"

The old man cackled, "_Hugin_, come to me."

The raven fluttered down from its post, landing on the man's inert arm. He trilled and murmured, reaching to stroke the feathers affectionately, "Yes, I lost her… I lost his sister… but Hugin has remained ever faithful… ever faithful… but he must… I must do without…."

"He will lead you well… do not stray… do not run… he shall lead you…"

"Take her… to the Serpent," he crooned, "He will know… what must be done. The Serpent… tell him…."

Now ever vigilant, Jane wondered at the wisdom of this. Wise to not interrupt, she waited impatiently. _Hell, what other choice do you have?_

The old man chuckled, raising his arm with the single command, "_Go_."

The bird took flight, flapping harshly into the darkness. Somewhere beyond, it _caw_ed impatiently. Jane remained until the elder nodded, wheezing a laugh, "Your place… is not here…. Go on."

Still hesitant, she lingered. A sudden thought unbidden in her mind.

"What of Captain Edwards?"

"Captain Edwards…?" the voice questioned, sounding surprised, "That one… is not here…. You may yet… find him… if you seek…. But he… can find… his own way…. You believe… truth this."

Unsure whether it was a statement or a fact, Jane turned to walk to the edge of the landing, wavering in her own determination. She glanced back to find the old man gone, the wolves crouched doleful at the foot of the chair….

Shuddering, she slipped down the side, bounding back the way she had come to follow the restless and overeager _caw!_


End file.
